My eyes were
opened
to the big moments.
Those key times of
weighing
one side up against another
and asking God
to show His will.
But oblivious to those daily
moments of choice,
prayer absent,
mind occupied with my
own plans,
hands full with
dishes and
chores.
So He led me down a path
of briars and thorns.
Sword thrusts
unseen,
the kind that left
hidden wounds
and took time
and His presence
to heal.
Wounds
which produced tears
while just driving,
or listening to music,
when the volcano
of grief
erupted
without warning,
and stopped,
just in time,
for the child to get into the car,
or to smile at the neighbour.
He led me along a path
of tiny choices,
so small
that they seemed
insignificant,
but that led me incrementally
towards Him,
or further away,
that increased my dependence,
or slowly severed it.
Tiny choices that softened my heart
towards His way
and His Son,
and all that He suffered,
or hardened it
and considered my
own pain, and leaned upon
my own understanding.
Choices that had roots
in fear,
or faith;
where I sought
me first,
or Him;
trusted His word,
or doubted;
walked towards pain,
or away.
Choices that stood,
steadfast and immovable;
or crumbled,
soft and yielding,
not to grace, but to ease.
The path of tiny choices
rubbed the skin off my flesh,
broke my spirit
and brought me first to my knees,
and then to the dust.
A path wide enough for two
at times,
but only for one at others,
and I had to choose which one
that might be,
Him or me.
It was littered with stones that
moved
under my feet,
making it necessary
to hold on to
something.
And in holding out my hand,
I realised
that His had always been there,
but mine had been
holding on
to other things.
So this painful path
of scattered stones
and piercing thorns
kept my hand outstretched
and clinging on
to One who
paid attention
to big and small,
encamped around
when I trusted,
heard me
when I cried,
saved me
out of my troubles,
brought comfort
when I needed it most,
and by His strong arm
and outstretched hand
rescued me,
and is helping me see
that the tiny choices
were the big ones,
and the suffering
produced the brokenness
I needed,
to reach for His hand.
Photo credit: Milosz Falinski
